Returning to the hospital with my child, and the song I once swore I’d never sing again
The recurring nightmare
It’s like a nightmare I’ve had many times before. I know what happens next. We are admitted to the paediatric ward, and hesitantly I take my seat beside his hospital bed, not knowing how long i’ll have to man my post this time. The beep of the saturation monitor is familiar, but I’m not comforted by it.
A child who knows the drill
Soli knows the drill too well. He opens his mouth before being asked, sticks out his finger to be pricked, and offers his urine sample to the nurse like he’s been given a running order prior to arrival. They begin putting the cannula in his arm and, like clockwork, my stomach turns to knots.
The Song I Didn’t Want To Remember
I start to sing. Quietly at first, almost under my breath, like I’m testing whether I can still access that part of myself. A song I once pushed away. It comes out anyway. Not for comfort. Not for nostalgia. Just for survival.
The weight of hospital rooms we never chose
There are things I refuse to let follow us back into these rooms. Things I’ve left behind on purpose. Songs I don’t sing anymore. ”Skinnamarink” was one of them. I sang it to him in the NICU and have hated it ever since.
Holding both past and presence
I hold his four-year-old body in my arms, remembering his four-month-old body going through the same motions. The same small voice whispers ”Mumma” weakly. But I’m not the same. I’ve hardened. I feel rigid – full of fight, and ready for what I know is coming.
Holding Both of Us
My voice is softer than I feel and Soli doesn’t ask me to stop. The room doesn’t change, but something inside it shifts – just slightly – enough for us to breathe in the same rhythm for a moment. And I stay there, holding both of us in that small, fragile space singing softly: ”Skin…”
The promise I can’t keep
”I need to go back to my family now, to my baby” — This is his answer to every question. And I say, ”I know. I hear you. We’ll go home soon.” But I know that’s not true. It’s a promise I can’t keep.
When words Aren’t Enough
At some point, words stop working. They circle the room but don’t land anywhere soft enough to hold what’s happening. He is tired. I am tired. And there is nothing left to say that would make this easier for either of us.
